


Battlemaster

by Moorishflower



Category: Mass Effect
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-28
Updated: 2011-01-28
Packaged: 2017-10-15 04:19:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/156960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moorishflower/pseuds/Moorishflower
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grunt receives fourteen breeding requests. Shepard receives three.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Battlemaster

They tell Wreav that Grunt killed the thresher maw, and the entire Urdnot clan seems happy to accept that, but there's an unspoken thread that runs through all of them, now, because Grunt knows, and Wreav knows, that weakening the thresher had been a group event, but killing it was an honor that belonged to only one person. And when they had approached the massive body, already being swarmed by Tuchanka's many predators, they had discovered that the killing blow, a still-smoking crater from where the missile had landed directly in the side of the beast's great head, had been Shepard's.

The breeding requests begin to pour in the next day. The vast majority of them are for Grunt, either from emissaries from the female camp or else the females themselves, full of - what Shepard assumes to be - flowing, elegant Krogan prose about the size of Grunt's hump and his fierceness in battle. Some of the requests make Grunt blush, which Shepard hadn't thought possible, though she doesn't say anything about it. Why should she, when she receives her own requests shortly after? Not as many as Grunt, to be sure, but apparently the sight of a female, covered with blood and carrying a smoking M-100 grenade launcher, is a turn-on to Krogans no matter _what_ species she is.

Most of the breeding requests contain lengthy passages about the size of the sender's "quads." The blushing, she thinks, makes sense, now.

Still, the messages are flattering, and she saves two or three of them, the ones that praise her prowess in battle, her strength, the sturdiness of her body. One of them - her favorite, if she's being honest - compliments her, not only on how she handles a weapon, but on her short hair ("Human females seem preoccupied with long hair, not realizing that it is a hindrance in battle. You are different. Your hair is short, and it is the color of the sun dying on Tuchanka's horizon."), on the broadness of her hips ("Should you choose to breed, you will make a fine mother - your body is strong, and capable of carrying many children to term."), and, oddly enough, her eyes.

 _Your eyes are blue and they are a killer's eyes, but they are not like mine. They go deeper than that. You are deeper than that. When you kill, you always have a reason. Other Krogan might say that "reason" is another word for weakness, but you have never shown weakness, and so they must be at least partly wrong._

The entire thing is like that, full of descriptive passages and carefully detailed comparisons. Her skin is the color of the moon rising over a desert. The blood of her enemies adorns her like the finest gemstones. Her mammalian mouth is oddly pleasing, like the pink ripple of a varren's heart just before one crushes it in one's fist. It's _poetry_ \- granted, it's Krogan poetry, but that just makes it that much sweeter.

And, to be honest, she's unsurprised when she finally sees the signature at the bottom, and realizes that the message was sent from onboard the Normandy.

The cargo bay is dimly lit and smells strongly of metal and oil, and, beneath that, the pervasive tang of blood. She doesn't know if it comes from her or from the ship itself, at this point, but it's become almost comforting. Grunt is standing next to his deactivated tank, staring at the glass. His fists are clenched at his sides; unmoving, he looks insurmountable, a great boulder teetering on the edge of a cliff, ready to fall at any moment. Shepard takes a step towards him, but only one step.

"I didn't know you were a poet."

Grunt turns his head, regarding her with one large, unblinking blue eye. "We are not entirely without culture, Shepard."

"I think you can call me Jane at this point, don't you?"

"...Jane."

She laughs. She is always "Shepard" in her own mind, the result of years of military service and no warm arms - male or female - to look forward to on shore leave. No one to whisper her name in the dead of night and remind her that she wasn't born a soldier. Still, hearing Grunt say it is...nice. "Why did you send me that message?"

"Because I wanted to."

"Elaborate, soldier."

"Because I am not interested in any of the other females. Their offers are...I do not want children. Perhaps when I am older, if I survive, but not now. And you are my battlemaster. You are...infinitely more worthy than the best of that camp's females."

"I'm flattered." She risks a step closer, and Grunt turns toward her, all blue and pale tan and pink under the dim light. He tilts his head at her, a motion more curious than calculating, and he doesn't charge her or try to move away when Shepard closes the distance between them and raises her hand to touch the curve of his jaw. He's shaped differently than any of the encounters she'd had before - humans, mostly, and one Asari. His skin feels like beaten leather, softer than she'd been expecting. She stretches up, onto her tiptoes, in order to touch his crest, the thick plates like horn or bone underneath her fingertips. Grunt inhales, and then makes an abrupt, jerky movement that ends with his massive hands on her waist. It's hard to notice how big your companions are when you're carrying some of the best weapons in the traverse, but she's unarmed, and Grunt is still wearing his armor. He doesn't need a gun to kill her.

"Humans are so delicate," he says - hums, deep in his throat - and there's a note of scorn in his voice. Shepard lowers herself back down, letting her hand drop and her mouth curl in a snarl. Bared teeth.

"Come up to my quarters sometime," she says, and hears the small hitch in Grunt's breath, and takes an animal satisfaction in it. "I'll show you who's delicate."

It sure as hell isn't _her_ , not with her callused hands and the stench of blood following her like a cloud of flies, and Grunt tries to stare her down, gets right up in her face and _rumbles_ at her, almost a growl. Shepard holds her ground.

After a moment, Grunt backs down. "Tonight," he says, and she feels the thrill of victory - the same thrill she had felt when she had killed the thresher - rush through every part of her.  



End file.
